Press Conference
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: A cross-over with Carol O'Connell's 'Mallory' novel series. The FBI gets some of its own back.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: This is an amalgamation of universes: Carol O'Connell's 'Mallory' novel series, and Without A Trace.

**Press Conference**

_Look, here she comes now_

_Bow down and stare in wonder_

_Oh, how we love you_

_No flaws when you're pretending…_

_ --- Evanescence 'Everybody's Fool'_

The intruder slipped in through a back door, winding her way past various levels of security as she tracked down her prey. It was a journey she'd taken innumerable times before, never leaving a trace of her presence. She moved quickly, knowing that the longer she lingered the greater her chances of being caught. Yet she was unaware that she already had been, that somebody watched her picking her way through the data-stream; watched and waited. Watched and waited and planned.

Jack stamps through the room, throwing a file on the table as he heads – without a word – for his office. He's a fast moving storm-cloud and everyone tenses for the lightning.

"Mallory?" The word leaves Samantha's lips before she even realises she's said it. Kathleen Mallory, darling of the NYPD Special Crimes division, and bane to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Usually the Missing Persons squad has the luxury of avoiding Mallory: Special Crimes usually deals with out-of-the-ordinary homicides, not disappearances. However, this time the missing persons are children and the indications are that it's serial. Jack gets no mercy.

"Mallory." Vivian shakes her head. "That girl has got to be the most impossible creature…" At the same time, it's clear that she's glad it was Jack and not her there, up in front of the cameras and the microphones.

"I hear they call her the Machine." Danny leans in, always ready for a gossip session. "She's a complete sociopath, if anyone could prove it."

"The problem is: the reporters love her and we come off looking like idiots." Vivian glances back towards Jack's office. He's standing there, staring out the window in that way he does when he needs to cool off.

"And have you seen the clothes she wears?" Danny's warming to his subject. "There's no way a cop should be able to afford that."

Their gazes turn reflexively to an all-too-expensive overcoat draped over the back of a desk chair. The occupant of the chair doesn't even turn his head or look up from the paperwork. "And your point is?" He could be angry – this agent with the perfect hair and the tailored clothes and the uptown apartment – but anger is wasted on things like this. He knows what they think of him: if Mallory is the Machine, then Martin is the Martian. He could be her mirror twin; her FBI clone.

"Yeah, but you come from it. _Her_ father was a cop." Danny doesn't want to give up his angle just because of a little logic.

"Markowitz. I know." Martin's father had choice things to say about Louis Markowitz, founder of the Special Crimes unit, and that only gives Martin more respect for the man. _Markowitz was good._ "My father _is_ an FBI agent." He says it with only a trace of irony. He's growing used to the fact that he'll never get fully out from under that shadow.

"Deputy-director," Danny mutters. "There's a big difference."

_This doesn't help_. Martin knows that on one level it does… it makes them feel better to snipe from a distance. Every single one of them knows that if they took on Mallory up close they'd end up shredded by those long, red, perfect nails. _Claws_. Not one of them would stand a chance… each of them is too afraid of losing to win.

Reaching a decision, Martin stands up and heads for Jack's office. He can see the reflections in the window waving him off, saying that it's not a good idea, but he goes anyway. Jack's irritated, but they talk, and Jack agrees. The logic is good even if he can't lay all of it out. Jack treats him differently now than he used to… there's a more subtle care there, like he knows that Martin has flaws – big flaws – and doesn't want to aggravate them too much. Jack knows more about him than anyone does, even more than Samantha does. But it's all suspicion, none confirmed… and there are still things he _doesn't_ know, or Martin wouldn't be standing here.

"Don't tell them, not right now." Martin quickly glances towards the rest of the team, not the least bit surprised to be the centre of their attention. Circuses always attract notice, and he's the big white elephant in this one.

"I wasn't planning on it." Jack's dry tone reminds Martin who's boss, and who always will be. He's starting to realise that Martin has no plans to politic his way to higher and higher positions; that he's here to do a job and do it well. But old habits and feelings are hard to kill -- even when there's reason.

Martin returns to his desk and begins calling up new files on his computer. This won't be easy: he's not dealing with someone used to losing. Indeed, Mallory is willing to go to great lengths to win even the most casual of contests. Given the enmity here – and between FBI and NYPD no love ever existed to be lost – he will need to be very cautious. Every angle must be considered; he must leave her with no choice. He knows, too, that he is taking a risk. Mallory does not take prisoners and has a long memory for revenge.

It came to life, waking from sleep to find the elements it needed to thrive. It hungered and saw food and thus ate. It had never been programmed for satiation, so never stopped until all its food was gone. Then it curled up and went to sleep again, its purpose fulfilled.

His advantage is Markowitz. The dead man might have shared – even authored – Mallory's hatred for the FBI, but he knew when to fold against an unbeatable hand, and he stares constantly over Mallory's shoulder. Martin tries to remember the man he never met: a legend in the NYPD and the Bureau, too. Even here, his name is spoken with respect, however grudgingly. Markowitz had rules – something Mallory has never fully mastered. Oh, yes, Martin knows Mallory – though they've never met – knows that Danny's malicious glee is somewhat unfounded. Mallory is not without conscience or care, but it's been twisted so many times that it's snapped in pieces. Not a sociopath, but still the same feral child of the streets she became sometime before her eighth birthday. Despite the years with Markowitz, she has not changed. Her rules are those of survival, of the fight.

But not a sociopath. A sociopath cannot love – and Mallory loved Markowitz. She loved Louis Markowitz – 'Hey Cop' – in her younger years, and loved Helen Markowitz without reservation. Amoral – they call her – but she has morals, imprinted on her by Helen, indelibly inked on her soul. Listening to the stories, Martin has found the pattern, recognises the symptoms. He wears expensive clothes because he can – they both wear them because they must. The clothes are armour, a way of denying that they will ever again be without. For while his time on the streets was by choice – anger and hatred at a father who _was_ incapable of love fuelling a series of disappearances to try and find that love – and hers was pure necessity and survival, both of them know the true meaning of fear and of hunger. _And the need for love_. Not in the romantic sense… but in the deeper, darker, human sense. A need so great that it _must_ be denied: like any addiction it only does more damage… and only leaves them needing _more_. Withdrawal hurts more than denial… so avoidance is necessary.

Mallory has felt it more than him, and Martin know this. Mallory is his might-have-been, the direction he could have taken so easily. It will be interesting – this clash – he finds himself looking forward to their combat. _Morituri te salutant_. We, who are about to die, salute you.

"Damnit." Mallory stared at her console, and at the file that still claimed to be scrambled, despite her best efforts. This was impossible; no one should have been able to get in here. The computers at the NYPD she could understand: they were garbage, not even worth the money the department had paid for them. Icy control warred with fiery rage and fire melted ice as it always will. _This_ was _her_ computer, her personal toy. It rested not in the grimy confines of Special Crimes, but in her inhumanly neat office in Charles Butler's building, her not-so-secret base for moonlighting. The books said everything belonged to Charles, but Charles was a man of antiques and art, of light and shadow and beauty. To him the computer was an intrusion, a one-eyed enemy of civilisation. He refused to believe her when she told him it was just a tool, that it had no soul to be good or evil with.

Someone, though, had scrambled the file she'd copied from headquarters, and the ones she'd lifted from the FBI computers the night before. She'd found the worm and killed it… but the files were chewed beyond recovery. So she had an enemy, a clever enemy who knew what they were doing, for the worm had very specific activation codes. It was a targeted attack by someone who knew their way around code almost as well as she did. Not only that, but her trace now proved futile as well. It returned an address – a useless address in determining identity. Her nemesis was a shadow, a ghost.

_Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?_ Markowitz had loved _The Shadow_, would sit in the basement and listen to episodes, his eyes closed, occasionally speaking to Kathy to teach her the magic. Yet she could never master it… for while she knew the evil, she could never understand the good.

His advantage is intelligence. Not I.Q. intelligence – he concedes that he stands no chance against her there – but information intelligence. Mallory is a Person. Larger than life, a well-known quantity. He, however, is No-One. There are no stories of Martin Fitzgerald outside of the Bureau – and even inside those halls the information is sketchy at best. Her history is known and bandied about: lifted from the streets at the tender age of ten by Louis Markowitz. Already a hardened criminal, she allowed Markowitz to tame her, allowed Helen to paint a veneer of civility on the baby felon. Raised in Special Crimes – much how Martin was raised in the Bureau – and a cyber-thief without par.

_Know thine enemy_. It is the mantra of every profiler, of every investigator of human crimes. You cannot fight mist, so you must make solid what you cannot see. It is a form of magic, a form of psychic ability – no matter _what_ people claim about psychology being a science. There is no checklist for profiles, no comparison sheet to say that if someone does _this_ then they must be _that_. Instead, much of it is gut instinct, working off of details the conscious mind cannot process. No computer can generate a profile, because despite its binary nature – its on/off, one/zero ability – the computer cannot understand the binary of good/evil. Perhaps that is wrong, perhaps the computer could understand good/evil, light/dark, but it _cannot_ understand shade and shadow. It cannot understand the greys of love mixed with hate and blended with the brilliant red of passion. The computer can process data, but cannot appreciate art. And it cannot pull information from nothing, from the mist.

Even his file – if she even knew to look for it – would give her little clue. His only weak point is the Reyes case – and there is nothing she can grab hold of there. If Vivian hasn't broken now – she won't break for Mallory. And Viv is the only one who shares Martin's secret, who knows the whole truth. There is no record beyond their memories and each holds them close for the other and for themselves. Jack suspects there is more than the official version, but he, too, will say nothing, for he has no proof and will not hurt Viv. Even his one official reprimand is nothing and would give her no clue as to his true self.

She went there anyway, to the building full of books and its bank of computers even older and more decrepit than the ones at the NYPD. These were public computers, paid for by public money and open for public use. This being New York, they were chained and bolted to the desks, which in turn were bolted to the floor. Any decent thief would take one look and go elsewhere, for these machines were useless now – more than two years old. A few people roamed through the stacks and around the tables, the odd assortment that seemed to inhabit any public building. So angry and intent was she, that she almost failed to notice the man in the grey overcoat who watched her with interest. She warned him off with a look, and he merely smiled and disappeared. This _was_ New York, however – people appeared and disappeared all the time. He'd been carrying a book, marking him as a denizen of this structure – a member of the faux literati. If she had seen the cover, she might have been warned that this man was dangerous, but she didn't see, so couldn't know.

His advantage is pride. Hers, not his, for his is small enough not to matter. She will not lose, and he does not need to win. She cannot blackmail him, but he has more than enough to extort capitulation from her. She will not want to admit she has been beaten – he will give her a chance to avoid it.

She is angry, off balance. He saw it today, in the glare she gave him at the library. She _was_ good, but had to know it was a dead end. He feels a twinge of guilt at abandoning children to take this on… but he knows that if the schism continues, neither NYPD nor the FBI will be able to solve this one. Despite the fact that Jack Coffey is the nominal leader, Mallory runs Special Crimes, the rest take their cues from her. They do not like the Bureau either… but the hatred is strongest in her, the lack of compromise is her own personal signature.

He pages through the volume he borrowed from the library… borrowed without record, for he knows how to do so. It's not a theft, merely a borrowing, for he will return it tomorrow in perfect condition. It's not a book, but an academic journal, and only one of the papers interests him. Its author is Charles Butler – possibly the most overeducated man in New York City, if not the entire state. More importantly, he is Mallory's friend and business partner, and he knew Markowitz well. If Mallory is a Person, then Butler is an Important Person. He is a part of New York _Society_, even if he is a reluctant part. Martin's sister would dearly _love_ to know Charles Butler, the man with a key to Gramercy Park and automatic invites to all the important events. And Martin would love to know him, if only for his insight into the puzzle that is Mallory.

A soft beeping emanates from his surround-sound speakers, alerting him that his program has run its course. The large screen, high definition television in the corner shows not a sitcom or serial drama, but file codes and data. He keeps it cold in here, because the unit that houses his CPU is not set up to support a fan. It is a dual-purpose data storage unit – digital on the inside, bound paper and ink across the external surfaces. It suits him, this mix of new and ancient tech – even before Gutenberg's 1440 revolution, the Chinese had perfected the use of movable type. And while books _can_ be destroyed, it is almost impossible to infect them with a virus. He wonders if Mallory can understand this… he's heard that she is a priestess of the New and that she disdains the Old. Yet the old still has its uses and its advantages.

He scans the information on screen, then sends it off through an anonymous relay point. There must be nothing to connect this with him, but Jack _needs_ this information if they are to have any hope. Not Coffey – Martin has no doubt that _Coffey_ has the information – but his Jack. Malone, now left alone… and more in need of help than ever before. He's seen Jack in pain, but this is worse and another reason for Martin to shield him from Mallory. Jack has given him much… more patience sometimes than Martin has deserved, or even recognised… he has to give something back. This is his offering, his sacrifice. The phone rings, telling him the time is now. _Morituri…_

_So who are they giving me this time?_ Mallory scanned the faces of the FBI agents as they walked in, nodding graciously to their obvious leader, whom she'd already defeated. As the last man entered the room, closing the door shut behind him, she drew a sharp breath. _Him_.

The grey man from the library – she recognised the coat almost before the face. An expensive coat, it belonged on the shoulders of an FBI agent as much as her own designer jeans and sneakers belonged to the NYPD. She looked more closely now, saw that he was young and pretty – too pretty for the job. She had no concept of her own beauty – people told her about it, but she could not master the magic – but she could find it in his face and in his graceful carriage. His eyes met hers, steel clashing with emerald. Was this to be her challenger? Young and pretty, he would look good in front of the cameras, but it would be odd to assume that a duty like this would be handed off to the most junior member of the team.

He mounted the steps to the stage, nodding at her as he approached. She could almost sense the cold calm radiating off of him, a twin to her own. The last time had been Fire versus Ice, and Ice had – as it always will – drowned the Fire. Today would be different – this one was dangerous. His smile – while pleasant and polite – carried no warmth. It was merely a curvature of the lips rather than an invitation of friendship.

"Detective Mallory?" The voice was soft and cultured – matching his perfect appearance. "Might we have a word?"

She raised a sculpted eyebrow at him, then nodded and rose from her seat.

His advantage is compassion – a thing she cannot comprehend. He is willing to give her the chance to save face, to not go down in flames. All he asks in return is truce – a high price to pay for pride, but one he thinks she will.

He shows her the files – the secret ones from her private computer, the private ones from the NYPD. "These showed up today. I wanted a chance to discuss them with you, so we're up to date." He's not admitting anything, though he can see that she's guessing – re-evaluating her foe in a clearer light.

She looks straight at him, not admitting anything herself. "This is interesting information."

"I thought you would think that." His lips quirk into a more twisted smile. People get sucked in by smiles – they fail to realise how much can be hidden in one. _Mallory_ won't be fooled – she uses the smile-weapon herself, but it's a natural instinct now, part of the mask. "This one looks like it's straight from the NYPD. We did a trace… apparently it came from the New York Public Library. Have you guys had computer problems?"

She nods slowly, and he can see she's beginning to understand.

He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper. "We _need_ to stop fighting like this, Mallory. You're a cop. These are kids. What would Markowitz think of you sacrificing kids for a petty turf war?"

Her mask slips – he can see he's scored a hit. Markowitz's first rule: _Thou shalt not let the sheep be harmed_. Children are the ultimate innocents – he knows even she understands that.

"Together." It's a concept she doesn't understand, he can see that.

"Hell, you guys can even have all the glory. _Together_ we can get this bastard, but not if we keep playing Tug-Of-War and Keep-Away."

"And if we don't?"

He twists the smile even more. "Then I drop all of this in front of them. Let them know that NYPD is compromised."

"So is the FBI. One of those files _is_ from there."

"So am I. You can't even prove a copy, Mallory, because yours is no longer there." It's the closest he'll come to admitting he's the one who slipped past her security… or rather let her do it for him. A couple of extra lines of code in a file she lifted… and everything she had was his. _Greed is good_. He keeps the Gordon Gecko quote taped to his desk as a potent reminder. Greed _is_ good, provided it's the other guy who's greedy. In her avarice for data, Mallory slipped and Martin reaped the benefit.

She glares at him, but cannot say anything. Then she does. "Who are you?" A question that must have been burning in her since he seized control of her world and turned it upside down.

"Special Agent Fitzgerald." _The Martian_. He watches her make note of it and knows he has now become a personal target. But that was his price for victory, and he pays it gladly.

He turns and sees the reporters, a pack of predators waiting for their chance to tear at the scraps he and Mallory will offer. "Morituri te salutant." _And are you not entertained?_

Author's note: for those who do not know, the last line is from the movie Gladiator, and the Latin phrase: Morituri te salutant was the traditional salute offered by the gladiators to Caesar.


End file.
